


Boys in Black

by LadyRazorsharp



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Anger, Childhood, Gen, Grief, Mourning, New York City, Penthouse, billionaire boys, lucy's death, tracy towers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRazorsharp/pseuds/LadyRazorsharp
Summary: The boys return to the Tracy Towers penthouse after Lucy's funeral, and grief begins to take its toll.Trigger Warnings: Death of parent, mention of self-harm, alcohol
Relationships: Lucille Tracy/Jeff Tracy, Tracy Brothers - Relationship, Tracy Family - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Boys in Black

They all came back to Tracy Tower after Lucy’s funeral, a silent, sad procession of boys in black. Though Alan was really too big, Scott had carried him all the way from the limo to the elevator, and hadn’t let go yet. Virgil had Gordon’s hand in his, and like Scott, hadn’t felt the need to relinquish it, nor had Gordon made any move to pull away.

John walked alone.

Once inside the residence, they all stayed in a loose cluster, unwilling to be far from each other’s presence. Cici, their cook and housekeeper, came out of the kitchen making compassionate noises, but no one moved to take her up on the offer of hot drinks or sandwiches. Jeff wandered over to the sideboard and poured himself a double, not bothering with water or ice, and John shuddered. John had never tasted whisky, but he’d smelled it, and that was enough to tell him that it had burnt all the way down.

Not that Jeff was feeling it, though; that was clear from the way his father refilled his glass, though this time he added ice. John stood in the middle of the room, hugging his elbows to his lean frame, watching as Virgil sat stabbing the television remote. Gordon lay with his tousled head in his big brother’s lap, carnelian eyes fixed in the thousand-yard-stare they’d all developed in the last few days. 

John hadn’t moved when Scott stepped into the hallway from room Gordon and Alan shared. Now that he was out of the public eye, Scott had abandoned his ramrod posture and now shambled down the hall as if he would crumple at any moment. He’d abandoned his suit jacket and the silver-grey tie, and was rolling up his shirt sleeves as he approached.

“Allie said he was tired,” Scott explained. “Poor kid; I don’t blame him.” He yawned hugely. “I’m exhausted.”

John nodded. They were all wrung out, and though a part of him knew intellectually that they would eventually move on from this state of torpor, he just couldn’t fathom it. It was wrong, somehow, to imagine Gordon pulling pranks or Alan regaling them with kindergarten shenanigans or Virgil playing anything that had a tempo livelier than the Moonlight Sonata. Mom was light and fun and laughter, and now that she was gone, so those things had gone out of their lives forever.

Virgil was still aimlessly flipping channels, and hadn’t realized that he had started the list over again without finding something to watch. Gordon was dozing, knees pulled to his chest and stocking feet twitching, paddling around a pool even in his dreams. Scott took a few steps in the direction of the kitchen, then stopped, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. John still hadn’t moved, his arms pressed tight against his chest and sides, long pale fingers digging into his biceps.

Over at the sideboard, Jeff exploded into motion, hurling his highball glass at with all the force he could muster at the polished floor. A bellowed curse tore from his throat, and he clamped his hands around the edge of the sideboard.

“Damnit, Lucy!” he snarled. “God  _ damnit!” _

John froze. Scott whirled around in alarm, but didn’t move toward his father. Gordon yelped awake as Virgil jumped to his feet, remote clattering from his nerveless fingers. A horrified Cici stumbled in, her eyes darting to each of the boys before settling on Jeff’s sorrowing form, and her fright faded into anguish.

Jeff’s shoulders were shaking as he bent over the crystal decanters, the mirror behind them reflecting the thick salt-and-pepper waves on top of his head. John couldn’t recall ever seeing his father cry, not even when his little brothers had been born. 

He’d been so cold all day, a chill that he couldn’t fully ascribe to New York in December, but hearing his father’s broken sobs made him go numb. He tightened his grip on his arms, desperate to feel something,  _ anything. _

Scott finally moved, reaching out a tentative hand. “Father?” His voice broke on the second syllable, and he coughed. “Dad?”

Jeff straightened, his own hands out to ward Scott off. “Careful, son, there’s glass everywhere.” He looked past Scott to Cici. “Mrs. Chalmers, would you please bring a broom and a dustpan?”

She bustled away, and when she returned with the requested items, ignored Jeff when he would have taken them from her. In just a few moments, the glass was in the dustpan and the dribbles of watery liquor were mopped with a dishtowel. She stepped back to survey the area once more, then gave a nod. “No harm done,” she soothed, and carried the shards of Jeff’s despair away.

The boys were still staring at their father, and he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, boys,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

Scott laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s like Cici said, no harm done.”

Jeff nodded, and the tension seemed to drain from the room. Scott actually gave his dad a half-smile, and Virgil settled back onto the couch, finally settling on one of Gordon’s favorite animated movies before putting the remote aside. Gordon snuggled into Virgil’s side and swaddled himself with the knitted throw on the back of the couch.

John stood, wondering if he could find a stray shard of glass and grind it into his flesh. He wondered if he would be able to feel it.

Scott appeared in his field of vision, and he blinked. “What--”

“You okay?” Scott’s deep sapphire eyes were too knowing, and they went round with surprise and hurt as John flinched away from his touch. “John, I’m--”

“I’m gonna check on Alan.” John turned on his heel, his dress shoes clicking against the blonde boards of the atrium as he crossed to the wing of suites.

When John arrived to stand in the doorway, the last rays of winter sunshine were lighting Alan’s platinum locks like a halo. The child was not sleeping, as Scott had thought he might; instead, he was seated in the midst of a sea of building bricks, bringing his artistic vision to life with all the seriousness a five-year-old could muster. As John watched, Alan’s little fingers snapped the final pieces of his latest creation in place, then raised it skyward in an imitation of flight. It was a rocket, John mused absently. Alan never built anything but rockets.

“Blast off!” Alan chirped. “Oh no, engines two and three are out, we’re gonna burn up on reentry!” He took the rocket out of flight to exchange a few pieces, then put it back on its flight path. “No, those modifications we made are gonna save us,” he intoned, in a slightly different voice to indicate a second astronaut. “Yay, we’re saved!” He darted the craft around for a few moments, whooshing and growling and filling in the chatter of the astronauts, oblivious to his big brother standing in the doorway.

Alan picked up a female astronaut figure. “Colonel Tracy, time for dinner,” he sang out. “Come on home.” He whooshed the rocket down again. “Okay, honey,” he said, lowering his voice in imitation of his father. “I’ll be right there.”

Something in John broke as he watched Alan swoop the rocket down in preparation to reunite the astronaut with his tiny plastic wife. Before he could stop it, John took two steps forward and slapped the rocket out of Alan’s hand, scattering building bricks everywhere. Alan, his cornflower eyes wide with fright, scuttled back out of his brother’s reach with his hands over his head.

“Johnny, don’t!” Alan wailed. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Didn’t you?” John snarled, his chest heaving. “Why didn’t you listen when Mom told you not to play behind the house? Why didn’t you come inside when she told you to? Why did you make her look for you?”

Alan sobbed. “I’m sorry!” He let out another wail. “Mama! Mama!”

  
_ “She’s not here.” _ John grabbed the lapels of Alan’s jacket. “She’s  _ dead, _ Alan.  _ She’s never coming back.” _

“Mama!” Alan’s scream was raw with tears and fright. “Mama!”

Then John was on his knees, building bricks digging into his flesh as he clutched his baby brother to his chest. “Allie,” he gasped. “Allie, I’m sorry, I…” Sobs overtook him as he rocked Alan in his arms. “Oh God, Allie. She’s  _ gone.” _

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Jeff burst in with Scott on his heels, their faces terrible, but they stopped short at the sight of John and Alan huddled on the carpet. Scott made an agonized sound and dropped onto Alan’s bed. Jeff sat back on his heels and wiped a hand down his face, looking as if he hadn’t slept in months. “John,” he said gently.

Alan looked up first, saw his father, and began to wail all over again. “Daddy,” he hiccoughed. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he blurted. 

With an efficiency of movement borne of his military training, Jeff scooped Alan up and spirited him away to the ensuite bathroom. Scott and John sat and stared at each other, listening to Alan retch and cry and retch again. Virgil hurried through the doorway, darting a worried glance between his two older brothers. Gordon tore past him, murder in his eyes as he zeroed in on his redheaded brother. “Gordy!” Virgil yelled, but the seven-year-old was too quick and darted out of reach. The tiny sandy-haired hurricane tackled John, managing to land a few wild punches before Virgil pulled him off.

“What’d you do to him, you asshole?” Gordon raged. “What’d you do to my baby brother?”

Scott and Virgil exchanged a glance at Gordon’s newfound vocabulary, but didn’t comment. John sagged and ran a hand through his rumpled copper flick. Right at that moment, being cussed out by a second grader seemed entirely appropriate. “I--”

The toilet flushed, and Alan came out wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Don’t say bad words, Gordy,” he scolded. “I’m okay.”

Jeff exited the bathroom, drawing the attention of all his sons. “Alan’s right, Gordon; I don’t ever want to hear that kind of language out of you again.”

With a final poisonous glare at John, Gordon flopped cross-legged beside Alan. “Yes, Father.”

Jeff eased himself down on the bed next to Scott. “Boys, I won’t lie to you: This is going to be very, very hard. Trying to live without your mother...well it’s something I never thought about.” He shrugged. “I told her exactly what to do if something happened to me, but we never got around to talking about the reverse. We’re gonna need to pull together if we’re gonna get through this.” He opened his arms. Instantly, Alan and Gordon climbed into his lap and Scott and Virgil let themselves be gathered in as well.

John sat alone, feeling the numbness crawl back over him, but Jeff stretched his arms that much wider. “Son,” he said, and the numbness retreated as John fit himself between Scott and Alan.

He wasn’t cold anymore.

\--fin--


End file.
